Heirloom
by whitesakura
Summary: Something that is special. Something that is meant to last. Sometimes, definitions change when you grow up. Tune fic.


Notes: Sorry for the long hiatus, I'm going through some personal problems. This ficlet is for a certain reader who thought Tune was being neglected in MK fandom. If you're out there, animechick13, this one's for you. Also, thanks to CrYsTaLsNoW for her kind words.

Heirloom

When she was small, Tune Youg was surrounded by soft, worn things. She was the youngest of three daughters, so as her elder sisters grew out of their possessions, she grew into them and learned to love what she could now claim as her own. At first, it had only been clothes - fraying corduroys, faded blue pastel dresses that looked as if they had been dyed in watercolors, hats so worn that the wool was almost diaphanous - but then came the toys. There was a wooden horse whose wheels were no longer quite smooth and she had to be careful whenever she pushed it up the incline of a triangular playing block. There was a mouse, yellow and shaped like a mango with deep brown eyes. When she tugged on its tail, it used to give a faint squeak. Eventually, the rattle of the noise-making device hidden within the fabric overrode its mechanical squeaks and she pulled on the mouse less and less but with increasing reverence. One day, the mouse squeaked one last time and fell silent, but she continued to stroke its synthetic fur until it came out in patches.

There were many toys after that and she loved them, too.

Tune had a wobbly top that eventually lost its wriggle, a cardboard puppet whose tin pins rusted at the joints and a yo-yo whose white string became knotted and grimy gray so it could yo-yo no more. At last, she received the Porcelain Doll. It was a little boy with pink cheeks and round black eyes. Her mother told Tune he was a family heirloom and even though Tune did not know what "heirloom" meant, she understood instinctively that the doll was something special. She played with him gingerly as her sisters had done before her. His overcoat grew dusty sometimes, but Tune cleaned him often, running the tips of her fingers over his tail-coats which reminded her of a robin's pinions. His hair was brown and curly, and she brushed it everyday with the rim of her nails. She always worked cautiously as if she expected a tangle, slowly and methodically, but one never came.

One day, Tune decided to bring the Doll "outside" to the park, which, like all other structures, was sheltered beneath the projected blue skies of their domed colony. He sat quietly by her side, enjoying the "sunshine" as she dug in her sandbox when the wails began. Tune's father put down his newspaper, scooped her up in one powerful motion, and took off. For a moment, she dangled in surprise, then the alarms sounded again and Tune began to kick as she was dragged toward the shelter of the underground bunkers. Her doll had slumped to its side in the dirt, and she cried and cried for him, but he didn't rise like the people around her on the benches. They screamed "Victim! Victim!" but her distant doll remained silent. The bunker doors closed around her, and Tune knew he could hear her no longer.

It was dark. Her mother and sisters were already inside and Tune ran over to them on stubby legs under the faint sounds of glass-tingling and explosive-boom destruction. Her mother swept her into her arms and smoothed over Tune's hair, asking the child what was wrong.

Tune cried, "I - I never even gave him a name!"

Years later, Tune carried her memories of worn, soft beginnings, and cold, abrupt interruptions to GOA. She liked slightly over-sized clothing, because she had always had their fluttery presence and flowing movement around her. She silently approved of the Repairer uniform she was given and took her place among the other girls. They stood anxiously in a straight row, waiting to meet their partners for the first time.

At last, they came.

The boy that approached Tune had very blue eyes and straight blonde hair that looked as if it could still tangle from time to time. Tune lifted a nervous hand in greeting, but instead of responding, the boy sheltered his right arm with his left. Under the fluorescent lights, he looked as pale and as fragile as porcelain and Tune loved him then.

"My name is Tune, sir," she said gently.

The boy smiled. His gaze was shy, but clear, and there was something strong him then - something timeless.

"A pleasure to meet you. My name is Ernest."

Tune heard the low vibrancy in his unexpected voice, felt a blush rise to her cheeks, and realized: she would love this boy in a way unlike anything else she had before.

Owari.


End file.
